Waves
by Lukascovitz
Summary: Prequel to Keep Me Watching; Claire and Owen struggle to cope with returning to normalism. Contains strong language and themes of depression and alcoholism. All feedback is welcome.


Waves

"There is a swelling storm,

And I'm caught up in the middle of it all,

And it takes control, of the person who I thought I was, 

the boy I used to know" 

– Waves, Dean Lewis 

The front door swings open, hitting the rubber stop behind it. Owen steps in carrying a brown bag of groceries under each arm; he hooks the door with his foot and slams it shut. He dumps the bags on the sideboard, on top of the unopened lease extensions that are becoming hidden by their own layer of dust. He immediately regrets taking a deep breath as the air is quicklyered by the foul smell emanating from somewhere.

After kicking off his walking boots, which land in the haphazard pile at the end of the hall, he grabs the groceries and heads down to the kitchen, leaving a trail of ghostly footprints on the cool wooden floor.

The smell of rotting food hits him like an ankylosaur tail, the midday heat acting as a catalyst for the concoction brewing in the trash can which is overflowing with half eaten meals. He shoves the new bags on the counter top, knocking over a few glasses in the process.

"Shit," he curses. He bends down to pick them up, only for the smell to intensify and tickle the back of his throat. He quickly rises and dry heaves.

I'll pick them up later, he decides.

Looking around, he sighs before instantly regretting it and gagging again.

"For fuck's sake, how did it get to this?"

He didn't want to check the lounge or dining room, knowing that they'd be in similar states of disarray.

"How did we get to this?" he asks himself through gritted teeth.

It was okay at first; a night of unwashed dishes, who'd care about that?

Hiding the vacuum in a cupboard? That's okay, he'd use it the next day.

And now, we live in this dump.

A few footfalls from upstairs draws his attention to the ceiling.

At least she's up.

Then he hears a squeak followed by running water.

And showering.

He ignores the acidic taste at the back of his throat and picks up the trash bag, holding it as far out in front of him as possible, and takes it outside. He doesn't watch as the bag jerks slightly, catching on a piece of exposed brick, and sending a small stream of slurry onto the sidewalk before he manages to get it in the can.

He returns to the kitchen and opens all of the windows, allowing a draft in in the hopes that it'll take the stench out with it.

It would be embarrassing to admit aloud that such a minor thing could feel like a major accomplishment, but thankfully, no one is there to see him smile about it.

He moves to clear the grocery bags off the counter, finding respective homes for the cans, bread, fresh greens and milk carton. There is a pang of guilt as he pulls the bottle of Jack Daniel's from one bag and hides it in a corner cupboard behind a few Tupperware boxes. Finally, after putting everything away, he balls up the paper bags and throws them over to the piles of paper meant for recycling.

Forty five minutes later, the kitchen is suitable for human habitation once more, with the majority of plates and glasses washed, and a few pans left on the side to soak. The rest would have to wait, he's not a superhero.

He leaves the other rooms for another day too in favour of heading upstairs to the bathroom, where the shower is still pumping out water.

The walls on the staircase are barren; he had planned on hanging up some framed photos, but can't bring himself to display any photos of his girls yet. The incident is still so raw, even thinking to look back on any "research" snaps taken on his cell make his stomach churn.

For a moment, he's back on the island, the air thick with moisture and nature's perfume emanating from the foliage around him. The familiar clicking mixing in with the crash of the waves and distant roars of other carnivores.

He pauses halfway up, gripping the bannister tightly.

"Stop it," he murmurs to himself, shaking his head.

He's back on the stairs, back to safety on American soil.

Although he can still hear the downpour from the shower, he checks the bedroom first, making sure that she really has left the bedroom today. Her laptop sits on the overturned blanket, its fan whirring like a jet engine; he strides over to lift it off the covers and allows it to cool. A low battery message appears on screen so he puts it down on the side, clicking its charger into the right port.

"Claire?" he calls, exiting the room and striding down the hallway to the bathroom.

He pushes the door open, finding her naked and sitting on the floor of the shower cubicle; she's staring at the opposite wall as if it was playing her favourite movie. He steps forward onto one of the dodgy floorboards, almost like it's re-announcing his presence, but even that doesn't draw her attention.

"Hey, are you alright?" He reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder, the spray of ice cold water hits his arm. "Shit!" He immediately shuts off the shower. "Claire! Claire, listen to me. You need to get out of the shower."

She ignores him, continuing to stare at the collection of black and white tiles. He grabs a bath towel from the rack beside him.

"C'mon, babe." He covers her with it, dipping it into the water that still needs to drain. He kneels down next to her, slowly snaking his arm between her back and the wall. She tips forward slightly, allowing him to pull the towel around and completely cover her ghostly white skin.

"You're freezing." He pulls the towel tighter around her. "C'mon, let's get you up."

He moves an arm around her back again, tucking his hand under her arm and slowly lifts her as he stands. She remains silent, eyes wide and staring at anything but him.

He takes her to the bed and sets her down on the edge before running to find another towel. He engulfs her in it, takes a seat beside her and pulls her close to him, using his body heat to warm her.

"Claire, for god's sake, you're freezing. What the hell happened in there?"

She replies with silence. Her bottom lip trembles as though she is trying to come up with an answer, but can't get it out.

"Claire, we talked about this. You can tell me anything, okay?" He attempts to assure her, "was it a nightmare?"

She nods slightly.

"Okay," he replies, "was it about-?"

"Mm," she murmurs.

"It's okay, you're safe here," he weakly reminds her. He's had the nightmares too, there's little that can stop that dreading feeling once he wakes up. "You know that you can tell me anything, right?"

"Mm."

"And if you can, you will?"

"Mm."

With each response, his stomach drops a little lower.

"I get them too," he says. "It's okay to have them."

"Mm."

"Tell you what," he diverts, knowing that his effort is futile, "if I go and start dinner, will you get dressed?"

"Mm."

He stands, places a kiss on her forehead, before leaving the room.

She can't quite put her finger on it. A few weeks ago, she was okay; leaving the house almost every day, and if not travelling to the local shops, she would go out to the yard. Being around Owen was good for her, their for survival plan was working; for the majority of the time, he could make her completely forget the shit storm that had brought them together. But even the smallest thing could make her mood plummet, making her want to lash out inanimate things and sometimes at Owen. It felt like someone had put red hot coals in the pit of her stomach that she couldn't put out.

It's not constantly there, but she can feel it. She's gone over it in her head, made lists on her laptop about it - even encrypting those so Owen can't read them – but she can't admit it aloud. Not that it would be hard to hide it; the past few weeks have taken their toll, since she'd weighed more as a teenager than she does now.

Every part of her body feels heavy, moving to the bathroom felt like she was back at the park wading through mud. She was always driven to do something, shrugging off the negativity or stress of the job by putting in more effort. Now she's reduced to this; feeling empty but full of anger and hate and despair all at the same time.

It was fine at first. She and Owen decided to stick together; their relationship had grown and she felt safe with him. After the nightmares started, nothing calmed her more than being secure in his arms. If she woke up crying, he was there; if she didn't feel like leaving the house, he respected that; if she felt low, like she was at rock bottom, he would just sit with her. She's grateful, in a way, that he'd gone through it too.

She wraps the towel tighter around her, liking the feel of the taut fabric across her chest. It'd be so easy to find a small space somewhere, curl into a ball and just give up; she could let those feelings take over and everything would just stop.

No matter how badly she wants to, she can't. A year ago, she was busy holding meetings with heads of departments, charming companies into becoming investors and getting the figures together to project for the next holiday season. Some had suggested that she take a few days off, after all, the park was doing well under her leadership. But she still felt the need to better herself, and at that point, Wu was hard at work creating the next generation.

"Hey," Own softly calls from the doorway. "Have you warmed up a bit?" He enters the room and settles on his spot beside her. She moves closer to him, accepting his arm around her once again. "I kept my side of the deal," he smiles.

The smell of chilli entering the room confirms that.

"I know you feel like shit, Claire," he adds, "but we need to go down and eat. It'll do us some good."

She closes her eyes, willing herself not to cry, to cave and tell him how she feels deep down. Her mouth opens, the words on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows her confession and gets up to find some clean clothes.

He places the plate in front of her, a small portion for them both; his stomach growls but he can't bring himself to divulge in the mountains of food he'd fed himself back on Isla Nublar. Besides, from the little that Claire has eaten over the past few weeks, he knows that she's feeling the same.

He waits for her to take the first mouthful; he studies her carefully as she slowly picks at her food, shovels a small pile onto the fork and stares at it.

"What?" she asks, her eyes moving up from the food to meet his own.

"Oh, nothing." He quickly moves his eyes to his own plate.

She takes a small bite, chewing quickly before swallowing and freezes.

"That bad, huh?"

"No, it's okay." She finishes the forkful and scoops up another.

"I think that's the best review I've ever gotten for my cooking."

The corner of her mouth twitches.

"I've been thinking," he says after almost inhaling his plate, "what if we went out tomorrow?"

Claire finishes her mouthful. "Out where?"

"I don't know." He shrugs, "how about the local park? Somewhere not too crowded, just for an hour or so."

She eats another mouthful before setting the fork down.

"Claire?"

"No, Owen. I don't want to."

"Really? I just thought-"

"I'm not going," she replies, finitely.

"Claire." He sets his own fork down. "I think that it'd be good for both of us just to get some fresh air."

"In an open field? With the public? And close to people who want to see us hanged for what happened!"

"It's not a witch hunt out there, Claire. People aren't going to harass us; we went through shit too."

"I don't care, Owen. I'm not heading out there!" She slams her hands onto the tabletop, making the cutlery leap up and knocking his glass of water over in the process.

Her palms begin to prickle but she does her best to ignore it. Sometimes, she could swear that she could hear the screams of the pteranodons and dimorphodons mixed in with the park's terrified visitors.

"Woah!" He holds his arms up in surrender, "I didn't think, I'm sorry." He picks up the now empty glass before it rolls onto the floor; luckily, it was mostly empty before it fell.

"I just can't face that right now."

"Claire, you've been cooped up in this house for weeks," he calmly says, "I just thought a bit of fresh air will do you some good. If you really don't want to go, then that's okay. I'm just looking out for you.

"One thing at a time though," he says, "why don't we just finish our food?"

The coals in her stomach begin to glow a little brighter; his plate is empty and she's been to enough conferences when men in suits pushed using inclusive words like 'we' and 'our' to boost productivity. She knows what game he's playing, but she shovels another small pile onto her fork nevertheless.

With her stomach churning, she runs to the bathroom and attempts to empty the food in her stomach. She coughs, but nothing reappears.

"Shit!"

She moves to the basin to wash out the vile aftertaste before looking up at into the mirror, and finds someone else staring back at her with tired eyes, hollowed out cheeks and pale skin.

There is a gentle knock at the door, followed by "Claire?" After a moment of silence, he appears behind her, another stranger appearing in the mirror. His hair is disheveled, stubble grown out into a bushy beard, yet he still has those inquisitive emerald eyes.

"I shouldn't have pushed you like that, I'm sorry."

"It's okay" is all she can reply. His hand on her shoulder offers her some comfort, but her heart feels like it's going to burst out of her chest.

"Come on, why don't we just go and get some sleep."

She steps back into him, allowing him to wrap his other arm around her and kiss her on top of her head.

"I'm sorry." Her voice is barely audible.

"Don't apologise. You have nothing to be sorry for, okay? It's shit. It really is, but we can make it through this." He pauses, wrapping his arm a little tighter around her. "You know I care about you, right? Like, before in the kitchen, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I just want what's best for you, and for us."

He feels her push a little more into him. He kisses her again.

"We're okay, we're safe here..."

"For survival?"

"For survival."

Shit.

The word relays over and over in his head as they lie together. His eyes trace the swirling patterns on the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars pass outside the window. He can feel Claire's breaths against his shoulder, snoring lightly beside him. He gently presses a kiss to her forehead before sliding out of bed and retrieving his boxers and a t-shirt that had been flung across the room earlier.

Avoiding the loose floorboards under the carpet, he weaves his way out of the room, down the stairs and straight to the Tupperware cupboard. He grabs a small glass on his way out, moving to the couch and tearing off the plastic cover on the neck of the bottle.

One double, then another, the whiskey burns his throat as he necks a third. The warmth ignites like a furnace in his stomach before it spreads to his limbs. His fourth serving rises to his head, turning those negative thoughts into a delicious numbness that feels even better when he sinks into the cushions. He closes his eyes and lets his head rolls back; if anyone is watching him, and doesn't know any better, they would think that he's passed out.

But he's at his peak; any more and he'd be dancing round the room like a lunatic, singing away to music that only exists in his head. Seconds seem stretched, yet hours pass too quickly as cramp from his awkward sleeping position wakes him. After a stretch and glass of water, he returns the bottle to its hiding spot before rejoining Claire in bed. As he settles under the covers, she jerks awake.

"Where were you?"

"I just needed a glass of water," he replies, "but I'm back." He snakes an arm underneath her side and guides her closer, using his other hand to pull the blanket up over them to warm her. Claire places a hand on his chest and settles on his shoulder.

When Owen wakes up, he automatically checks the clock on the nightstand. 14.37. It's been a long time since he's slept in past noon, let alone any later. On his other side, Claire seems unfazed by the time, and is still fast asleep on his now numb arm. If he hadn't seen her yesterday, he would guess that there was nothing out of place with her. But the PTSD has done a number on both of them, not that either of them would admit that they were suffering.

They'd dismiss it as stress from the fallout of the incident, that reporters had hounded them in the months after it happened and that they were still settling in to life back on the mainland. But PTSD or depression were terms that they couldn't deal with, instead he just hopes that it'll pass, that it's just a phase and they can get back to living their lives.

He flinches as Claire's hand on his chest begins to dig into him; he looks at her face as it scrunches up in discomfort.

"Hey, hey," he says, taking his hand in his, and using the other to gently shake her away.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she replies, her eyes still welded tightly shut.

"Claire!" he says, louder. He shakes her a little harder, hoping that she'll relieve the death grip on him. He can feel her heart beating rapidly against him. "Claire!"

He shakes her firmly now, needing her to wake up before she hurts him.

"What? Wha-" she stutters, stopping when she sees her white knuckle grip on him. She instantly lets go. "Shit!"

"Just a nightmare," he replies, stretching his now free hand. "You've got quite a death grip there, remind me never to piss you off."

"I'm so sorry," she says, shifting to the other side of the bed.

"No harm done." He smiles, hoping to reassure her. "You okay? Seemed like a pretty rough one."

"Huh?"

"The nightmare?"

"Oh, I err.. it was nothing." Her attention moves to a loose piece of skin on her finger.

"Sure didn't look like nothing." The comment just slips out automatically, and the look on her face makes him instantly regret it.

"Are you fucking serious?! It was nothing, and I don't want to talk about it!"

"Look, Claire, you looked uncomfortable. I just want to make sure that you're okay," he replies.

"Just fuck off, Owen! Leave me alone!"

For a moment, he just stares, his eyes boring into her.

"If that's what you want," he slowly replies, "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

He gets up and leaves, closing the door behind him.

What the fuck did I do?

Claire buries her head in her hands, but closing her eyes brings back the image of Owen severely injured or dead in her arms; there was so much blood, she couldn't even move to check if his heart was still beating.

And then she kicked him out of his own bed when he was just trying to help.

What the fuck have I done?

"Shit, shit, shit!" She rocks back and forth, the movement somewhat soothing. "I fucked up, I fucked up!"

He didn't deserve that, deserve this. Maybe he would do better...

For a moment, she freezes and her eyes scan the room, finally lying on her laptop on the dresser. She races for it, as if someone else would take it if she didn't grab it within seconds. It snaps open and she furiously types, finding several helpful websites in the process and bookmarking them. After an hour or so, she finally moves away.

It's all done.

One time, she may have smiled at her accomplishment, but this makes her stomach drop even lower. For survival.

After triple checking that her laptop is locked, she finds one of Owen's hoodies and wraps herself in it and heads down the stairs to find him cooking.

She stares at him, considering how to start.

He turns around and pauses with a plate in one hand and a double whiskey in the other. His brow sinks.

The Owen in front of her is not one she sees often, thankfully; but one that she only appreciates when his anger isn't being aimed at her.

"I would've made more but I wasn't sure if you were joining me," he says shortly, nearly throwing the plate on the table before taking a seat.

"Owen, I-"

"I care about you, Claire," he cuts in. "When you have a nightmare, and a bad one at that, I want to make sure that you are okay. That's it. But when you lie to my face and then tell me to fuck off, it doesn't exactly make me feel great or make me believe that you actually trust me.

You're going through shit, I get that, but please just trust me when I'm just trying to help."

He stabs the chicken fillet with a fork and furiously slices it several times.

"Owen, I was just going to say I'm sorry. The nightmare shook me up and I got a little bit spooked. Just because I'm going through shit doesn't give me the excuse to act like that. I shouldn't have blown up at you."

She joins him at the table, tentatively taking a seat whilst watching him closely. He closes his eyes for a moment, before sighing and the old Owen returns with his soft features and eyes that are eager to please her.

"I really do care about you, Claire," he repeats, "but, for the love of god, never kick me out of bed like that again."

She reaches out her hand, wrapping over his. "I'll try not to."

He lifts their hands together and kisses the back of hers.

"I may have made a bit too much food if you want some," he offers, sliding the plate halfway between them.

"I doubt that," she replies, smiling. "But I'm okay, I may make something later. You carry on."

"Okay," he replies. He lifts her hand again and kisses it again, and then drags the plate back across the table.

She smiles briefly at him tucking into a very late lunch...or early dinner. Her grip slightly tightens around hand, and he brushes his thumb over her fingers.

"I care about you too."

It's too early to tell him the L word to his face but she's definitely thought about it. If the incident had taught her anything, it's to keep those she cares about safe, and tell them how much they mean to her. And there's not much she wouldn't do to keep him safe.

Owen can't remember the last time that have done this; after eating a full meal each and having a few drinks together, they moved to the couch to watch some pointless game show.

We might be getting back to normal.

He smiles to himself, before planting a kiss on the crown of her head.

He could say a word right now, but he's not sure how she'd react. She'll probably blame it on the alcohol - he is on his fourth of the night, after all - but it definitely was not the cause of him feeling all warm inside or how giddy he feels beside her; almost like he's a fourth grader who's got a date with the cutest girl on the schoolyard.

Unlike a fourth grader though, he downs the rest of his glass like a pro before deciding that he needs a refill.

"Can I get you another?" she asks.

"It's okay," he replies, attempting to lean forward before that usually wonderful feeling stops him. "I'm good for the minute."

Claire gets up anyway and takes his glass with her to the kitchen, he's powerless to help, but appreciates her moving for him.

How's she managing this? I always thought she was a little bit of a lightweight. She must be on her third or fourth by now?

She pours him a single; having seen him dance and sing - poorly - around the room to Uptown Funk after five doubles once before, she really didn't feel with having to deal with him after that again. Especially when he started spouting random dinosaur facts at her, then she really regretted egging him on to beat his then record, she dreads to think what six doubles would do to that man.

One more will knock him out and hopefully take the edge off, especially after today's argument. She dutifully places the Jack Daniel's back in his ever so secret hiding spot, before returning to him.

"Here." She holds out the glass and waits for him to rise from his slightly awkward looking position on the couch.

"Thanks," he replies, taking the glass and then downing the single like an ordinary shot. "I think I'm gonna pass out if I stay here."

"Best get you upstairs then, before you do," she answers, holding out her hand.

He takes it and hoists himself up, fumbling for the remote to switch off the tv.

"I'm good," he says, though Claire highly doubts it as he puts a little bit more weight on her.

"Come on," she tells him, guiding him through the narrow doorway into the hall and then up the stairs.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out of nowhere.

"Sorry for what? Being drunk?"

"Noooooo," he slurs. "I meant about...y'know."

"You'll have to elaborate, Mr Grady," she replies, finally arriving at the bedroom.

"About, y'know." He pauses to shed his t-shirt, before standing sheepishly before her. "I mean about...the shit," he adds, sincerely. "I just wish that I could make it stop, for both of us, but mainly you."

"Owen, just get into bed."

He unbuckles his jeans and lets them slide down on their own. "I wish I could make it disappear. I wish that Jurassic World never happened, even though I wouldn't be standing here," he glances down, "partially naked in front of you, or be able to do this." He steps forward and places a soft kiss on her lips. "It would be so much easier for you, and y'know, maybe I could have won you over...even in board shorts."

Her stomach has never sunk lower than this moment.

"But it did," she replies, "and you are here, and I don't know what I'd do if you weren't there that day." She rises on her tiptoes to kiss him back.

"Claire." He takes her hands and steps backwards, leading her to the bed. "Claire Dearing."

"What is it?"

He pulls her closer.

"I really really really really really REALLY like you, so much."

"Ditto, Owen."

"And I will always be there for you," he adds.

"Thank you." She lifts a hand to pretend to itch her cheek, instead hiding a tear that she has been trying to hold back.

"No matter what, hell or high water," he continues, "because there's been no one else that's made me feel like this."

He draws her closer for another kiss before gently undoing the zipper on his hoody.

"This is mine," he says against her lips.

"It's comfy," she replies.

"It does look good on you, but a lot better on the floor," he counters.

Owen snores peacefully beside her, the whiskey having lulled him into a deep sleep for - from what she can remember from previous drinking sessions - around nine hours; a literal herd of brachiosaurs couldn't wake him now. She swallows thickly before quickly getting dressed and grabbing her overnight bag from the closet. Inside it, she places the few pairs of jeans she owns, a couple of t-shirts that she'd claimed off Owen, underwear and toiletries. On top of those, she grabs her laptop and charger, easily slipping them on top of her other possessions. Her cell and its charger, passport and wallet are stuffed into her purse, and just like that, she's ready.

"I'm sorry, Owen," she tells him, picking up the discarded hoody and putting it on. "I'm doing this because I love you." She moves closer to place a kiss on his cheek, then his forehead, before tearing herself away from the room before she makes the mistake of crawling back into bed.

He pushed her to bathe, to dress and eat; he did everything and she did nothing but hold him back. She'd yelled at him and just hid from the world. It'll be hard for him at first, especially if what he'd said last night was true, but he'll understand eventually. He deserves better.

Stepping out into the early morning air for the first time in a month and a half is strange. The leaves on the trees have shed most of their summer apparel, the air has a crispness to it and the slight breeze brings the signature chill of the upcoming season. Zipping up the hoody, Claire places the overnight bag's long strap over her shoulder and heads to the main road; her plan is to walk a few blocks before calling a taxi to the airport. Connecticut sounds nice; nice and far away from the man she's left to nurse a hangover by himself, a place where she hopes she can slip in unnoticed and keep under the radar enough to get back to some form of normal.

Owen startles awake, cursing whatever god is listening that he forgot to close the blind, not that anyone could've predicted he'd drink more than usual last night.

"Urrrrrggggghhhhhh," he dramatically moans, flailing an arm up in the air and then dropping it down onto the cold sheets beside him. "Ugh?" He slowly turns his head to where his arm landed. "Claire?"

He pauses, listening out for the hum of the boiler and shower, or the clanking of pans in the kitchen; he always loves her hangover bacon breakfasts she'd cook just for him. Nothing.

"Hey, Claire, where are ya?" He slowly rises to not make his pounding head worse. "What happened last night, Claire?"

He gets up and quickly dons a pair of boxers and jeans. "Claire?"

Passing the dresser, he notices her laptop's gone. Maybe she's at the table and has earphones in? He jogs down the stairs to find the kitchen empty, and then every other room devoid of life.

"Fuck!" He spins round, ignoring his worsening headache, and jumps up the stairs, two at a time. He grabs his cell from his jeans and dials her number. One ring...two rings...declined.

"Hi, this is Claire Dearing. If you'd like to leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Claire, it's me. What the hell is going on? Where are you? Just call me when you get this."

"Hi, this is Claire Dearing. If you'd like to leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"Please, Claire! Just let me know where you are, and if you're okay? I woke up and you're not there. Just call me back, please!"

"Hi, this is Claire Dearing..."

"Claire, I'm begging you, just answer me."

"Hi, this..."

"Claire, if it's something I said last night, then I'm really sorry. I love you, please, just come back to me, or tell me what I can do to fix this. I love you, I really do."

The cell drops from his hand as he collapses to the floor, his eyes puffy and throat almost closed up. Despite the excruciating agony in his skull, he screams.

**A/N: **Keep Me Watching has not been forgot about, I swear. Things have been excruciatingly difficult within the past couple of months: had to move house because my so called house 'mate' stole a tonne of my stuff, which was a mental rollercoaster; didn't get a job I was hoping for; my laptop now doesn't work, just general shittiness to be honest. Now that this has been finished, and I'm happy with it, I'll be taking another look at KMW and will be getting back to writing more, but I work in retail (full time) so who knows. Formatting went a bit pair shaped in this as I'm using the app and editing is impossible on it.

But enough with the moaning, thanks for reading and any feedback is appreciated!

Your boy,

Lukascovitz.


End file.
